Hall of Stars
by Razzaroo
Summary: Iceland had promised himself that he'd bring Denmark back. Denmark was waiting for him; he had to go. Follow up to "Beyond The Blue."


**A/N. Wow, I've been working on this one _forever_. I don't know why it was so hard to get out. Anyway, here it is, in all its, uh, glory. **

* * *

_"If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me."_ **_Hans Christian Andersen._**

* * *

Sometimes, he dreams about Denmark. They are always set outside, either on a beach or in a field. There are never any human voices.

Denmark is always so happy to see him.

He can see Denmark's lips moving, forming words that will never be heard. He wants to hear them; oh, God, he so desperately wants to hear them. To hear Denmark's voice again is the only thing he really wants.

Because Denmark's voice is the one voice that should never have fallen silent.

* * *

He has his boat ready. It's only good for short trips, three days out at sea at the most. Norway doesn't like him going out; after all, the sea isn't the best place for anyone, let alone someone with his recent health troubles.

But he has to go out. Norway doesn't understand. He can't just sit and get over when he feels that there's something he can do.

He can feel that Denmark is waiting for him. He can't keep Denmark waiting.

* * *

His radio tells him that it's raining in Copenhagen. He's not surprised; it's rained there a lot since…it happened. Maybe, when he brings Denmark back, the rain will stop.

He turns the volume of his radio down (he never turns it off) and brings his inhaler to his lips. It's gotten worse lately; he wonders if it's because of him trying to bring Denmark home.

When Denmark's back, he'll get better. When Denmark's back, he'll have time to rest again.

* * *

He returns home, empty handed. His lips are blue with cold and he's shivering. Norway scolds him and wraps Denmark's coat around his shoulders. He pulls the coat close, trying to wrap himself in the feel of Denmark and finding himself almost disappointed that Denmark's scent no longer clings to the fabric.

Then again, he didn't know why he'd expected it to in the first place.

Norway draws him close in an attempt to warm him and doesn't let go of him for a long while.

"Don't go out again," Norway asks, his voice soft, "Please."

And for a moment he's torn between giving in to what Norway asks and what he feels he needs to do.

* * *

He wonders if Sweden knows what he's trying to do. He sometimes catches the other nation looking at him, his expression thoughtful.

Nothing's ever said. Sweden just smoothes his hair down and pats his shoulder before turning his attention the other Nordics. Has Norway said anything to the taller nation about the constant trips out to sea?

He hopes not. He wants Norway to be the only one to know

He wants it to be a surprise.

* * *

The boat's been taken in for repairs and he's taken to wandering about on his beaches. He's always taken comfort from the sea. His beginnings come from the sea, brought to him by Norway centuries ago. The sea is what he knows, the sound of the waves, the salty air.

_(Maybe that's the real reason he keeps going out)_

He shakes his head and buries his bare toes in the cold, wet sand at the water's edge. The waves lap gently over his feet, soaking into the hems of his trousers. If Norway was with him, he'd get a stern look and a warning that the cold wouldn't be good for his health in the long run.

If Denmark was with him, he'd be soaked to the bone by now and surrounded by the sound of the Dane's laughter and "_How're ya feelin' today, baby brother?"_

Instead, it's just him and the sound of the wind and the waves and the gulls shrieking overhead.

It almost makes him want to cry.

* * *

There's a storm brewing, the radio says. There's a warning for all boats to dock as soon as possible and for people to stay indoors if they can. He has no intention of turning back, not so soon into this outing.

He can handle it. He can handle anything. He's made up of volcanoes; a storm is nothing.

He stays in his cabin, huddled in thick quilts and forcing down crackers and smoked salmon. His head is pounding and he feels too hot. He puts his plate aside and curls up on his narrow bed, closing his eyes.

_There's a calloused hand against his forehead, pushing his hair back and feeling for a fever. A kiss is pressed against his temple and a hand strokes his cheek; the touch is familiar, comforting._

"_Don't ya worry, little brother. I'm here, I'll take care of ya."_

* * *

When he wakes, the storm is long over. He looks over at his small table to see that his plate has been cleared, all the crumbs swept away. He doesn't remember clearing up. His blankets have been smoothed out and some fresh clothes have been hung over the back of his small wooden chair.

Had his headache been so bad that he couldn't remember doing all this?

He pressed his hand to his forehead, willing the remnants of the headache to go away, before getting out of bed and getting his breakfast ready. His photograph of Denmark grins at him from above the bread bin and he weakly smiles back at it.

He feels that he must be losing his mind, smiling at a photograph.

* * *

This time when he docks, there's no one waiting for him. It's late at night and the sky is inky black and sprinkled with stars. The lights of the seaside town glitter against the black of the sky. Reflections of the stars, the moon, the town lights all dance on the rippling waves.

He's surrounded on all sides by stars and it's beautiful.

He leaves his boots on the pier and goes to walk along the beach, barefoot. His feet sink into the cool sand and he takes a deep breath in through his nose, filling himself with the scent of salt.

The wind is bitingly cold and it goes right through him. He pulls the heavy coat closer and carries on down the beach. He'd been so close this time; he'd felt it. Denmark had been there and he'd been so close and if he could just—

He sits down on the sand and brings his knees up to chest. He feels like he could fall asleep right then and there.

The sound of a soft whistle carries over to him on the wind and he looks up and frowns. A tall figure is standing further down the beach, coatless despite the biting wind. He gets to his feet and makes his way towards them. It's only good manners to see if they're all right, yes?

His eyes widen as he draws closer and his pace picks up speed until he's sprinting down the beach. That hair, that wide grin, those _eyes._

He throws himself into Denmark's arms and clings to the other nation, burying his face in Denmark's shoulder. He can hear Denmark laughing and that makes him cling on even tighter.

Denmark's here; he's really, really _here_. A choked sob forces its way out of his mouth and Denmark smoothes his hair down, reassuring him, _"I'm not going anywhere, Iceland. I'm here, I'm right here."_

Denmark sinks to his knees and he goes down with him, the sobs coming hard and fast now. Denmark's shivering from the cold but he can't bring himself to let go and offer the other the coat he's wearing.

It is rightfully Denmark's after all; he's just been keeping it safe.

* * *

Eventually, Denmark stands him back up again and wipes the tears off of his cheeks. Denmark's still grinning and he manages a wobbly smile back.

"_Look at ya, cryin' over little ol' me. What would Norge think, hmm?"_

He just shrugs and wraps his arms around Denmark again. It's been too long without Denmark, without his voice and his laugh and his bone-crushing hugs. The older nation's got a lot of catching up to do and he's not about to lose his fair share.

"_Let's get ya somewhere warmer. This can't be good for ya, not after ya were so sick."_

Denmark takes his hand and they walk back along the beach, following his footprints back to the pier.

Together, in their all encompassing hall of stars.


End file.
